Pink Admiral

by Sarah Davies

Her throat was congested with velvet caterpillars hoarding sentences she wanted to say, while he could talk until the end of the universe. They would sit on the damp bench as the rain pummeled the fluorescent pink umbrella, while he asked about the smell of storms even though she sat in silence. Hesitantly, her eyes gazed into his, lips touching as the butterflies were released, and a whispered ‘I love you’ hushed him for eternity. 

Sparkle Garbage

by Ariel Zuidema

The music from the stage starts up again. It’s out-of-tune with loads of feedback. They test each instrument, each mic, each speaker. It fades into the background as I scroll through my overheating phone. The online catalog displays glittery stilettos and bejeweled barrettes and rhinestoned stockings and metallic joggers and holographic dresses. None of it sparks my interest. It’s all sparkle garbage. I throw my phone in the crevice of the inflatable couch. Useless.

Raising Awareness

by Anna Boughtwood

Her testimony, shared on social media, killed all sense of solidarity with her. I should have known to stop reading once the text mentioned a man entering a bedroom. I should have intuited the predictable path of the story from just that detail. What boiled me in anger was her insistence that she was righteous in her actions, that she was justified in springing her story on us all under the guise of raising awareness.

Did she ever pause and consider that some of us are already aware, even excruciatingly so?

Postcards That Never Came

by Foster Trecost

My brother never told me anything, like when I got a postcard from the Keys. That’s how I found out he went there and it showed up a week after he’d been back home. We never talked about it but he knew I knew and I guess that was good enough. So it made sense when the hospital called to tell me he’d passed away. I asked what happened and they said he’d been sick a long time. I knew nothing about it. The next week I half-expected to get a postcard. Then hoped I’d get one. But never did.

No Accident

by Barbara Patten

When the Honda Civic smashed my bumper it sounded like a massive metallic balloon popping. We were both okay, but chunks of our totaled cars littered I-94, and I had to reclaim my Camry’s contents from the repair shop that gave me the bad news.

I lived only a few blocks away and walked down the sidewalk carrying my snow shovel, kayak life vest, seat covers, and emergency blanket bungee-corded together. It was September, and I passed a lady dressed as a witch, all in black with a tall pointed hat. We appeared as we must out of necessity.